


Close to the Ground

by Jo Lasalle (Jo_Lasalle)



Series: Five Ways Lee Adama Never Met Laura Roslin [1]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Five Times, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-13
Updated: 2005-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jo_Lasalle/pseuds/Jo%20Lasalle
Summary: Lee mets somebody in a bar.(Part of a number of stories re-uploaded for archival purposes. It's been over 15 years, and so any tagging or summaries are going to be extremely bare-bones! I tried to time a bulk upload so nobody got 10 separate notifications, but if I did accidentally spam people, my apologies!)
Relationships: Lee "Apollo" Adama/Laura Roslin
Series: Five Ways Lee Adama Never Met Laura Roslin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039657
Kudos: 1





	Close to the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a "Five Ways" series - five AU first meetings between Laura Roslin and Lee Adama. 
> 
> Re-uploaded for archival purposes. It's been over 15 years, and so any tagging or summaries are going to be extremely bare-bones.

Lee's not getting drunk. He examines what's left of his shot of cheap-bright green, the watery look deceiving; he's on his second glass and he's making it last, he's being a good boy. Got to be presentable tomorrow. Wear the dress greys, fly the formation, wash behind the ears for daddy's big party.

The storm over Caprica that has him grounded is an angry threat in the sky, thickening the air. They said it might not lift; Lee doubts that. Bill Adama has plans, after all. Little thing like a storm isn't going to interfere.

Gods, he wants this to be over.

Through the closed windows he can hear the noise of the bar, packed as it is. Every bar and café in the quarter is packed tonight, with so many flights delayed or cancelled, and Lee's in no mood to fight for elbow space in a hot and stuffy room. On the patio he's almost alone, doesn't have to smile at anyone, doesn't have to see the appraising glances when he tells them he's a Viper pilot.

A Viper pilot brought to heel, ordered to make nice and smile for the cameras from the top of the food chain. They might be less impressed if he told them that.

He starts when a gust of wind, eerily warm when the sky is this dark, lifts the abandoned paper off the neighbouring table. It rustles along the floor, then crumples around the leg of Lee's chair, and he watches the sheets flutter in the breeze.

There'd been an old man earlier, bundled up in a thick coat, drinking coffee in silence except when he called his dog to order, but he left when it got too dark for reading. Now there's only the woman in the light-coloured suit, and when Lee looks over she's watching him, all poise and cool scepticism.

Lee frowns and bends down to pick up the creased paper, which is pointless because the next breeze will blow it off his table, too, and he's not going to run after what someone left here as waste.

She hasn't said a word since he sat down. She's watching the harbour, too. When she's not busy disapproving of him, that is. Lee figures she meant to leave on one of those ships over there, the ones that had to stay on the ground, hunkered down against the storm. They're deserted, lights off, black carcasses against a patchwork of grey. It's not even late.

He might have one more. For a moment he tries to picture himself showing up to the decommissioning in mutinous fashion, drunk and disorderly, hitting the deck of his father's beloved battlestar hard, a nice long scrape. Wonders what they'd say about Bill Adama and his perfect pilot son then.

He can't see it, of course. It's not what he does.

There's an empty glass on her table, and one she holds in her hand without drinking. Maybe she's rationing, too. She doesn't look like she'll be flying a Viper tomorrow.

She's got the steely stare down pat, though. She'd be giving orders, not taking them. Smart suit, tight posture; it's amazing her back touches the chair at all. She looks like she closes million cubit deals on real estate. Like she lobbies Assembly members for impossible legislation. Like she gives lectures during which nobody dares whisper.

Though she's sitting here in the dusk-like gloom, drinking by herself, so what does he know.

She takes a swallow, then swirls the remains of whatever she's having around, frowning. "You might have to go in," Lee says, and it comes out almost friendly. She calmly turns her head and he holds his own glass up in explanation. "If you want another. I'm not sure he's coming back out."

Her eyes are very dark; everybody's would be in this light, of course, but hers aren't as cold as he thought they were, and she looks at him for longer than Lee considers polite as a response to a simple for-your-information. "You scared him off?" There's a smile there that she's hiding badly.

"No," Lee says, and goes back to staring across the harbour as his face heats up. Definitely a strong contender for his top five of wittiest comebacks ever; he empties his drink in celebration, and then frowns again because, indeed, the waiter isn't coming back out and he'll have to go in if he wants another.

Lee watches the shivering reflections of Caprica City's nightlife on the water and thinks about fireworks. There's bound to be fireworks tomorrow, to go with the trumpets and the moving father-and-son reunion. Hard to believe they got him to retire at all.

He looks over; he didn't mean to be abrupt, and just then she's still sitting very straight, legs crossed, no fidgeting, but there's a tremble to her glass and her left arm is curled around her middle, protectively, her hand against her ribcage, and Lee remembers he's not really an asshole most of the time. "You okay?" he asks carefully.

She turns her head, surprised, and for a moment he thinks she'll look away. Her arm sinks into her lap, and when she shrugs slowly and takes a small, measured sip, her hand is steady. "It's chilly," she says.

"Do you want my jacket?" he asks, and instantly wishes for someone to come and kill him. She says nothing, but her eyebrows rise very, very high, and for what is maybe the first time today, Lee laughs a little. "Okay, never mind."

She smiles; she has a nice smile. "I assume you've had a less than stellar day," she says, nodding at his table as the symbol for his sad evening plans.

"Oh, great day," he says. "The real blast is going to be tomorrow." That didn't sound quite right and he makes sure to take the whine out of his voice when he asks, "What about you?"

"I'm just fine." Now her smile is ironic and a little painful.

He doesn't want to pry and he doesn't want to just stop; after a moment he asks, "Work?"

"Sorry?"

"Trouble at work," he explains, feeling clumsy.

She shakes her head, still amused. "No, that's just the usual."

"What's the usual?"

"Oh, you know." She sighs, leaning back her head. "Government job." She gestures dismissively, but he knows that she's being deliberately vague and he can tell from her cursory glance that she knows that he knows. "I'm running a project. Education; we're trying to do work with the military," she relents eventually. "And the military people in question have been a little... prickly." It seems to be as much detail as she wants to give him.

"They sure can be bastards," he says under his breath, knowing she can hear him anyway.

"You'd know something about that?"

It's a light question and he thinks about what to say; he doesn't want to be a Viper pilot tonight. "My dad's military."

"Ah," she says, and then nothing. It seems to be as much detail as she wants to hear, and that's fine, too. His father, his problem, and he's not prone to dumping on strangers. She's having a bad day of her own.

The old newspaper shifts and Lee pins it to the table with one hand. The temperature seems to have dropped; Lee sees her brush back her hair against the wind and then wrap her arms around herself. She meets his gaze, and there's a pause, a moment in which she considers.

Slowly, she holds out her hand, and he's thrown for a second but then he gets it. She's cold. He offered; now she's asking.

Lee thinks maybe he should smile because this could be teasing, except it's not; she's just looking at him, waiting, and he sits up and shrugs out of his jacket.

She's two tables away so he has to get up, and as he approaches there's a brief moment when his stomach tightens and he feels like an idiot, certain she's going to laugh. But she meets his eyes again and there's no joke there, just that odd intensity that has him looking away as she takes the jacket and slips inside.

He sits down next to her; anything else would be silly. They're both out of drinks but Lee still feels the tingle, the slightly altered awareness of the cooling air. It is a bit chilly with just the thin cotton sweater, but he doesn't mind.

She's older than he is, by quite a few years. More than he thought at first. He likes her smile anyway. She pulls his jacket closer, huddling into it, and he likes that, too.

She's silent again, watching the harbour, or lost in thought, and it doesn't make him feel unwelcome. It's only after a while that he says, "I'm sure you got your way, though."

She starts, as if she has to work to find back into the conversation, and there's a trace of roughness to her voice. "My way?"

"With the military people."

"Oh, that." She shrugs, but that's diplomacy now; she's pleased with the outcome and being polite about it. "Well, we reached an agreement." But diplomacy passes; she sighs as if it's a burden she cannot carry tonight, and she tips it over the side. "Yes, I did." She's pleased. That's that.

"Good," he says, and smiles.

He likes sitting with her. Beats brooding over formation flying and shaking his father's hand for photographers, for sure.

She doesn't ask him if he's from Caprica. What his job is. What he thinks of the play-offs so far. Now and then she looks at him, with that same focus, with no time for the unwritten rules of -- whatever this is. He knows this from clubs, with people who've had too much to drink.

But she's not drunk, and it's not unpleasant, so he meets her eyes and smiles and then finds a ship or a wave or a skyscraper to look at when he feels a flush stealing up on him.

He says nothing, either. Now and then a clichéd phrase passes through his mind, and he dismisses every single one. He's no good at them anyway, and he has a feeling she wouldn't play along and provide the equally clichéd answers.

"I've always liked the waterfront," she observes. It startles him, sudden as it is. There's nothing forced to it, no sense of a need for small talk.

"I like it, too," he says after a beat. "Must be nice to live here, with the view and everything."

She nods. "It is."

"You own a place here?" he asks in surprise, and only realises then what that might sound like.

She does, too, but her only reaction is a slightly raised eyebrow, and she says, as matter-of-fact as before, "It's not impossible to come by. But, yes, knowing people helps." She stops, thinking briefly, and then she gives him a rueful grin. "So does living on bread and water for a couple of decades."

"I bet."

There's a pause, and now it's him watching her watching the sea. "It relaxes me," she says thoughtfully.

"Is everything all right?" he asks again.

She tilts her head. "I'm warm." She raises her hands in the pockets of his jacket in demonstration, and she wants to leave it at that so Lee just smiles because it looks funny.

"Do you want me to get you anything else?" he asks, nodding towards the table.

She considers that. Eventually, she shakes her head. "No." Unhurried, she reaches underneath his jacket for her own pockets, turning up a small folded square of cubit notes. "No, I think it's time to go." She unfolds a twenty, placing it under her glass. It doesn't cover Lee's bill.

Lee wants to say he's sorry to hear that, and he is, but she doesn't make any of the usual gestures of fatigue and _Gods, it's been a long day_ , and her eyes are still so dark, still on him even as she stands and steps away from the table.

"You're still wearing my jacket."

She regards him calmly. "And you want it back now?" There's no teasing here, either, just a question, a quiet enquiry, and Lee feels it all over his skin and in his stomach, something warm and tingling, like the soft burn of a good spirit. She waits.

"I'm not cold," he says slowly. He gets up, careful to be easy, not to appear rushed, and still there's a moment when he sorts through the notes in his wallet that he feels terribly awkward.

But that's all gone when he joins her at the stairs, and follows her down from the patio. He easily falls into step with her, unhurried, comfortable.

They're right by the water, practically alone, the air swirling with erratic gusts of wind. She makes no attempt to fill the silence, and neither does he, and that's all right, he can do that, just go along with her, step after certain step, no need for empty chatter. It's all right. It's a little exhilarating, too.

Once they leave the bars behind the neighbourhood is somewhat less than cosy. The promenade narrows between hulking transport vessels on the one side, warehouses, shacks and empty dock offices on the other, and Lee thinks any other night he'd have felt like the escort, walking her home safely. He'd even like that, he muses as she slows down underneath a streetlight, adjusting some bracelet under her cuff.

Her suit is lilac; he only sees that now, and how the rough fabric of his brown jacket clashes with the finer material of her skirt. Her hair is a dark brown with a touch of red, messed up from the wind and a long day, and it looks very soft. He thinks she wears lipstick, that it has faded since this morning.

And she's seen him watch. Her eyes aren't black at all, but a greenish-blue, and they're no less unsettling for it, no less fierce. She doesn't blink bashfully, or fidget, or play; she just looks at him with no trace of fear and no time for games and Lee feels heat crawl all over him.

There's a dryness to his mouth, from the alcohol. He'd put his hands in his pockets except she's wearing the jacket. And he's not cold at all.

He tilts his head back, looking up. "You think it'll lift?" Stupid, awkward. Cowardly, too, and he's sorry for that, he really is, but he can't, he doesn't do reckless well, and he's not sure what this is.

Because it's not a seduction. He's been seduced before, and this is nothing like that.

"I hope so," she answers, and it should be conversational; he has them talking about the weather, for frak's sake, but it doesn't lighten the moment at all. "I have to be somewhere."

Of course, and so does he, and what a dumb thing to say because it's even worse, because it puts him right back in his CAG's office, getting his orders, a grown man made to go back to his father's dinner table and be polite to the guests. He almost yelled at the CAG. He recalls the crazy moment he thought of quitting, right then and there, never mind the consequences, and the mortification that followed, seeing himself act like a petulant child.

"Me too," he says in a flat voice. And then he meets her gaze, and he won't flinch away again.

Her expression is mildly curious at his tone. Lee clears his throat, shakes it off. "Where are you going?" he asks.

"To a battlestar decommissioning," she says, off-hand, like she's not fussed about details anymore, humouring him, like it's just one of those things, and the realisation has him dumbstruck.

"That's your project?" he asks. The _Galactica_. She's talking about the _Galactica_.

"Yes." She nods, unfazed. "We're turning it into a museum."

She said it; prickly military officers, but she got her way in the end. And right then he can see it easily, picture her and who she's been dealing with, and how she got her way in the end.

The implications chase through his mind; this is big, negotiating with the Department of Defense big and she's someone important, and maybe this whole evening isn't the most appropriate thing he's ever done. She'll be there tomorrow and Lords, there'll be speeches and handshakes and embarrassment waiting to happen, and Lee finds he doesn't care. Of all the people she could have turned out to be...

She's the one shutting him down.

He must be staring; Lee knows he's staring because there's a sudden sharpness to her eyes, and he thinks her breath catches a tiny bit and it's dizzying up close, this utter lack of tiptoe and pretence.

"What?" she asks, very quietly.

"Nothing." Nothing that would matter to her.

The promise of thunder is in the air; his skin is prickling with it, and he thinks that if the storm broke now they'd hurry for shelter between the warehouses, wait out the rain under some tiny bit of roof, watch the harsh night dissolve in a blur of soft water.

He wonders how close she'd stand to him, this woman who is taking Bill Adama's ship away from him. If she'd jump at a roll of thunder; if she'd cling to him, for warmth, for anything.

She's still watching him, eyes clear and unwavering and he thinks he's a fool. Thunder would be nothing to her.

There's no rain, no blur. Nothing soft about any of this, and no excuse, no accidental tumble and catch. She steps in, that's the question; he holds himself still and that's yes, and he holds his breath at the warm touch of her hand. She's his height, she doesn't even have to pull him down; she just moves in close and here's soft after all, her mouth on his, soft and warm and terribly exciting.

Lee lets her part his lips with her tongue and he's got his arms around her, the roughness of his own jacket under his hands and against his neck as she draws him closer.

She tastes faintly of alcohol, just as he does, and he likes the way she's moving in his arms, and how her breath speeds up when he hovers over her mouth before she pulls him back to her. He touches her back underneath his jacket and she likes pressure there, likes when he rubs his fingers up her spine, as far as he gets before the jacket constricts him.

She runs her hands over his chest and arms, firm always, no hesitant ticklish brush and he feels hot under her touch, and he wishes she'd tug his sweater free and touch his skin.

Her hair brushes his face and he trails his hand through it and then down her neck, still kissing her, kissing her deeper, and then she makes a small sound that runs hot through him and gods, he's hard from this, kissing and stroking through layers of clothing on a public footpath.

He takes a deep breath, touches her hair again, soft and thick. He touches the V of her blouse, wants to linger on the skin that's revealed there but she breaks that off when she presses flush against him, and Lee draws in a sharp breath, uneasy because she's got to feel him like this and it's all so fast and he doesn't know her at all and maybe she didn't--

She notices his evasion, and he feels his face redden as she pulls back to look at him, but when he gets it together and meets her eyes there's such heat there it makes him weak in the knees. She wants him hard, wants him hard for her, and then she kisses him and pushes against him and his hands find her hips and he pushes back.

She moves, steers them, and he lets her. It's a bit of a stagger and at some point she breaks the kiss and takes his hand and then they're in the shadow of two warehouses, under the roof to some entrance that's sealed with a thick iron chain, a tiny light overhead.

With gentle fingers she's caressing his face and he catches one of her hands and kisses her wrist, grazing the veins with his teeth. She leans into him hard, pushing him back against the strip of brick wall. It's better like this, easier; he can push one leg forward and he runs his hand down her back, to her legs, and pulls her in, settling her against his thigh. She makes a soft sound, shuddering in his arms and Lee runs a hand up her neck and tilts back her head, kissing her neck open-mouthed, the soft hollow beneath her ear.

A museum, he thinks, and laughs, low and breathless against her skin, the fast pulse underneath. She's making it happen. Better than a junk yard; a floating monument, stripped and refitted, squealing schoolchildren and snack bars. Lee hopes she'll give his father a free year pass. Her project, she's making it happen and Lee is making her shiver and gasp and sweat; he's going to make her feel so good, and her breath is coming faster as he's kissing her throat, holding her close, giving her something to move against.

But she stills, exhaling harshly, her hands on his shoulders and then she slides and shifts sideways, so that her hips are snug against his and there's a slow, deliberate thrust right against his cock and he's gasping now, he can't help thrusting back, there's a rhythm there, her moving against him, so good, back and forth, so easy to pick up and she sucks on his tongue and he could come from this, but he's not sure about her, and it's hard not to speed up, and even if nobody sees them this is quite possibly the craziest thing he's ever done.

He feels the struggle when she slows; he lets go of her waist at once, his hands dropping to his sides, unsteady. She pulls away minutely, takes her weight off him, air coming in cool between them.

She steps back just enough to let him stand, and when he doesn't she takes one of his hands, a gentle pull.

He's breathing fast, staring stupidly, before he closes his eyes and leans back his head. She's right. This is insane. Just a minute, he'll be all right.

Then her hand is stroking through his hair and she kisses him slowly, deeply. One arm curls around him and Lee wants to ask if that's her idea of stopping, and maybe he should feel led on but he doesn't, he can do this for the rest of the night if that's what she wants him to do.

She pulls him tighter, and shifts, and Lee follows and she's moving, turning them and then there's a jolt when her back hits the wall and Lee comes up short, stunned and ready to apologise but it dies on his lips because it's not an apology she wants.

Oh gods.

It's a new level of arousal, the sight of her, of what she wants so plain and open. Her fragile necklace is tangled, the small pendant sticking to her flushed skin, her chest rising and falling erratically. She must feel the sweat on his hands and she makes no move. Waiting for him.

When he leans in his heart is beating so fast she must hear that, too, and she sighs and closes her eyes, and there's more kissing and a bit of time for Lee to get a grip.

With one hand he cushions her head, and he brings the other between them, stroking her ribs and the side of her breast but she twists her arm under his to pull him tight, and she sighs again when he gives in.

Eventually he manages to push the jacket back over her shoulders, and she smiles when he tries to unhook the front of her suit without breaking the rhythm.

She works a hand between them. "Like that," she murmurs, and pulls open the row of hidden buttons with a firm tug.

There's still thin cotton and dark silk but it's better, warmer, pressing close and she likes that. Too cold, too out in the open for anything else but he can tug her blouse free and slip one hand underneath, her back hot under his palm, and he runs the other down her side, over the elegant fabric of her skirt, stretched tight because she's trying to make room for him between her legs. The skirt is smooth and warm against his fingers but not as warm as her bare skin when he slides his hand lower, his fingertips just reaching past the hem, and then up, underneath, and she draws in a breath but that's nothing to the rush Lee feels at doing this, at feeling her shiver under his hand. Her thighs are so soft and then there's fabric that's wet and she pushes against the heel of his hand and Lee thrusts against her involuntarily, struggling for air.

She twists her arms and he feels her hands on his belt, and he tries to focus on what he's doing, tries to concentrate, and she's not moving and just then he catches a glance, a tension that is different, something that has him pull back.

For the first time she looks at him like she's self-conscious, hesitant, and makes him pause, hard and wound up as he is, because she shouldn't be, because he doesn't want her to be.

She's holding herself still, eyes wide, and he strokes back her hair, touches the side of her face, moving his other hand up from her thigh to her stomach, so she has to let go of the belt. He kisses the corner of her mouth, her stomach rising against his palm in short breaths, his thumb rubbing circles through the thin fabric of her top.

Her arms come down around his shoulders and she exhales softly, and something falls away, and then she turns her head, wanting his mouth again.

He kisses her, slow and then harder. She slumps against the wall when his hand grazes the insides of her thighs. Breathing out slowly, she's not closing her eyes and he fumbles past her underwear and feels her warm and wet, making her moan.

The angle is odd and he can't feel as much of her as he wants with his arm in the way but she's straining, rocking against his hand and it might just be too much if it weren't for that bit of distance.

It's heady, making her feel like this, feeling it build in the strain of her legs, her mouth that's open and flushed from kissing him and she's getting close, breaking away from his lips and eventually it's a gasp and a look that say stop, now.

There's the belt and the zip, he does that, quick now and no fuss; she puts her arms around his neck and he lifts her, easily, and she's arching her spine and pushing back against the wall, and then he's inside her, and she makes a small breathy sound and he bites his lip because she's warm and slick around him and control is a hard and painful thing.

She sighs, and he moves, crowding her into the wall, and he tries to lift more of his weight off her because he must be crushing her.

"I don't want to--" Panted into her neck; he feels his own breath hot on his face and the sweaty tangles of her hair, and he wants to brace himself on the wall but he needs to hold her up and he needs to move and he wants her to come while he's frakking her.

Her hand is on his cheek, damp and burning. "You're not," she says, and she raises her hips and he answers and she says, "Yes," and then it's easy, a strain but easy, finding a rhythm again, she meets him on every thrust and there's sweat between them where he's holding her up and a breathy sound she makes when he grips her harder, and it's good and it's fast, the pace she sets and she's close, they both are.

Not long, and he can feel her shaking, the uncontrolled twitch to her thighs at his side. There's a soft whimper against his ear, her fingers digging into his shoulder blade and she tenses all over, and shudders.

He slows, his arms aching, and she sags a little, heavier on him, more difficult but it's good anyway, he wants to give her a moment, but then she tightens around him, makes herself stiffen for him, her body hot and twisting against him and her face so open, wild and open, and he catches her mouth, kissing her wetly, and it's only a couple of thrusts and then he's there, thrusting into her hard, and coming, sweating and shivery and boneless.

Crazy. Unbelievable.

Lee is still panting, unmoving, tingling all over, his body thrumming and tired and heavy from this.

Too heavy for her.

She's trembling a little when he lowers her knee, letting her stand. The hem of her skirt falls onto his wrist, his thumb stroking her thigh, bruised from his grip. He feels her muscles shift as she regains her balance, and that's good because Lee's all out of that. His knees are like water and he braces himself on the wall beside her head, breathing into her hair.

She slides an arm around him, leaning her head against his. They stay like that for a while, long enough for them to get their breaths back.

Then she steps to the side, smoothing down her skirt, and Lee turns and slumps against the wall. They both sort out their clothes without looking at each other, which is good because Lee suspects he looks very ridiculous.

"What..." His voice is a little rough, and strange to hear after so much of this happening all in silence.

She hasn't stepped away. She's there with her lingering eyes, and he can't tell what she's thinking but she still looks a little wobbly in the knees and flushed, and for a moment he wonders what it would be like if they'd been inside, in a bed, if he could wrap around her and feel her, warm and naked, not the salty air of the harbour.

Carefully, he raises a hand to her face, trailing two fingers down her cheek. She watches him like she's not sure what to make of that, and he kisses her briefly, gently.

"I've got a busy day tomorrow," she says, without impatience, without apology. Of course. That.

How odd, to think of that now, a distant rankle, something he knows he was angry about.

"Okay," he says. "I'll walk you home." Slightly surreal under the circumstances, no doubt about that, but he means it anyway, and she doesn't laugh, just gives him a small smile.

"I'm not scared."

Lee knows that. "You'll be cold," he says in a low voice. He tugs at the lapel of the jacket she's still wearing.

"I wasn't tonight," she says, and it gives him a strange sort of ache, makes the air feel all the more harsh on his tingling skin.

There's still a storm hanging over Caprica. There's a chilling wind and it's gathering strength.

"Let me walk you home." He touches a strand of her hair, and she doesn't look suspicious this time. "I'd like to." He can't argue a point, can't say that it's a little late to worry if he's a crazy person, or ask why he shouldn't know where she lives, he's not going to haunt her doorstep and send her threatening messages; he doesn't have the breath for that.

He waits as she considers him, whatever it is she has to consider, and then she leans in and that's yes, and he smiles.

"Okay," she says, and kisses his mouth, and just stays close for a while, and when he's finally steady on his legs and she leads him out of the alley, there's her hand, soft and warm in his, all the way.


End file.
